


Roll of the Dice

by RileyC



Series: Love & Bullets [3]
Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Games, M/M, PWP, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, chanteleigh suggested that the guys might have some competitive fun with a pair of sexy dice. This is what I did with that idea, and she is in no way accountable for the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roll of the Dice

**Author's Note:**

> Not having sexy dice myself, I went the expedient route of assigning instructions to a regular set.
> 
> 1 pip = kiss/mouth  
> 2 pips = caress/hand  
> 3 pips = tickle/neck  
> 4 pips = bite/ear  
> 5 pips = nuzzle/nipples  
> 6 pips = lick/torso
> 
> So, if you roll and get 1 + 4, for instance, the action required would be to kiss ear. And yes, I wrote the scenes according to actual rolls.

"What's the objective of the game?"

Seated cross-legged on the bed, Aloysius Pendergast was regarding the dice resting in the palm of his hand, weighing them, rolling them thoughtfully. They were slightly larger than the norm, each side etched with the white outline of a heart that framed a curious – intriguing, even – variety of nouns and verbs.

"Objective?" Sitting opposite him, Vincent D'Agosta shrugged. "No objective. It's just, you know, something to spice things up."

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware things needed spicing up."

"Nobody said they did," Vincent said, beginning to look exasperated.

"And yet…" Pendergast jiggled the dice meaningfully.

"Look," Vincent made to reach for the dice, "I just thought it would be fun—"

Pendergast closed his fist tightly, refusing to relinquish them. "Thus I ask again: what is the objective?"

"Why the hell does there have to be an objective? It's a game." Climbing off the bed, Vincent was reaching for his shoes, grumbling, "I get it, it was a dumb idea. Forget I brought it up."

Slipping off the bed and catching hold of Vincent, stopping him from leaving, Pendergast said, "My dear Vincent, I never said I wouldn't play."

Eyeing him suspiciously, Vincent said, "Is that so?"

"That," and Pendergast tugged Vincent's necktie loose, "is indeed so. I merely propose that there should be a goal in sight."

"It's not a competition—"

Pendergast smiled. "But it could be…"

~*~

Pendergast reminded himself this _had_ been his idea, and that it had struck him as rather a good one at the time.

As the kitchen timer went off with a series of beeps and flashing lights, however, and Vincent abruptly left off kissing his neck – languorously licking and nibbling all along his throat, really – Pendergast was inclined to think he had miscalculated just a trifle. He reached to draw Vincent back, but his hands were batted away and Vincent rocked back on his heels, looking altogether too pleased with himself. A bit flushed and breathing hard, true, but the hint of smugness in Vincent's expression trumped all of that.

Scooting back against the footboard, Vincent nudged the dice toward him. "Your turn."

As he sat up, composing himself, Pendergast turned that over, and began to feel inspired once more as he reached for the dice, listening to them clink together in his hand.

The competition they had finally agreed upon was a simple one. They would play the game as decreed, with the shrewd addition of a time limit. Whatever the act being performed, when the two minutes was up, that was that. The eventual winner, as it were, would be the one with the greatest self-control. At the time, the identity of that individual had appeared to him fairly obvious. Now that a couple of rounds had been played, however, that certainty had taken on a somewhat hazier aura.

Locating the timer had been the hardest part, to begin with. Beyond that, it had simply been a matter of creating an inviting atmosphere and making themselves more comfortable. They were both still clothed, although increasingly disheveled, and with each new round a few more buttons were undone.

Aware of Vincent watching him intently, Pendergast released the dice, both of them watching with baited breath as the red cubes tumbled across the bedspread – anticipation wavering a bit at the result: **Caress Hand**.

Hmm…

Upon further consideration, Pendergast set the timer, and then reached over to catch hold of Vincent's hand, scrutinizing it as keenly as if it were a major clue in a case. It was a good hand; the palm somewhat broader than his own, the fingers lacking a certain elegance perhaps but nonetheless quite pleasing. Retaining a hint of summer's tan, the hand also boasted some rough calluses, and a quarter moon sliver of a white scar on the heel.

Pendergast kissed that scar, lips lingering at Vincent's soft gasp.

"I'm not sure," Vincent had to pause a moment, steadying his voice, "that's what's meant by a caress."

Pendergast raised an eyebrow. "Oh, well, if you want to be a stickler about rules—"

"I'm not a stickler about rules." Vincent's breath caught again as Pendergast's teeth nipped at his thumb.

Pendergast smiled and laced their fingers together, admiring the contrast of their skin tones. Tan lines encircled Vincent's wrist, left by his watch, and Pendergast ran his fingers along that paler patch of flesh, delicately stroking upward over his arm. He could feel a faint shiver traveling through Vincent at his touch, fine hairs standing up and tickling the pads of Pendergast's sensitive fingers. Stroking back down, he gently massaged each callus, slowly circling outward, his own pulse quickening as Vincent began returning the caress. It was almost like a dance: palms brushing, fingers twining, tangling, pressing together palm to palm as they watched each other, lips parted, breathing hard—

 _beep beep beep_

"Yes, well," Pendergast sat back, "illuminating game," he murmured, a bit breathless.

Vincent swallowed, nodded, licked his lips. "Yeah," he said, also needing to steady his voice. "Want to call that one a draw?"

Nodding acquiescence, Pendergast watched Vincent pick up the dice, roll them in his hand, and let them tumble across the bedspread.

 **Kiss Torso**

Vincent's smile was _entirely_ too cocky. "You could concede." He reached for the timer.

Eyeing him coolly, Pendergast settled back comfortably, lacing his hands behind his head in a pose of utter nonchalance. "As the parlance has it, my dear Vincent, knock yourself out." Precisely how long he would be able to maintain the attitude remained to be seen, of course. Given the avid look in Vincent's eyes, Pendergast's confidence was not soaring high on that point.

Stretched out beside him, Vincent reached over to undo the last few buttons of Pendergast's shirt, resting his hand – warm, and disturbingly confident – on Pendergast's flat stomach. "So, anatomically speaking," there was a decided smirk in his Vincent's voice, "how do you define torso? I mean," that hand began moving, fingers lazily circling from navel and gradually upward, "from here, to here?" he asked, and brushed his lips along Pendergast's collarbone.

Anatomically speaking, a crisis point could well be approaching -- for both of them, Pendergast noted, as Vincent pressed against him. "Is this really the time for conversation?"

"You don't like to talk?" Vincent asked, sliding a hand under fabric, pushing the soft cotton out of the way. "You don't want to know what your skin tastes like?" he said, voice a low rumble against Pendergast's skin.

"No." His hips bucked up a bit as Vincent's lips brushed his nipple. "What?"

"Mmm…" Vincent kissed his nipple again, licked it thoughtfully "Kinda tangy."

"Tangy," Pendergast murmured, as Vincent's mouth glided across his chest to sample the other one. Vincent thought he tasted … tangy. And, judging by the appreciative sounds as Vincent lips explored further, brushing along his ribs, his stomach, grazing around his navel, that piquant zest was quite pleasing.

Shifting restlessly as Vincent moved again, kissing his way back up, Pendergast stroked his head, fingers digging into dark hair to keep Vincent right … _there_ … licking the hollow of his throat. Would it be so terrible to, as Vincent had suggested, say, 'Uncle,' and graciously lose? After all, losing was purely a technicality in this instance; this was as close to a win-win situation as might ever come along.

"Vincent—"

 _beep beep beep_

Impossible to refrain from a frustrated groan as Vincent rolled off him – although only far enough to bury his face in a pillow with a growl.

"I believe," Pendergast said, aware of a huskier note in his voice, Southern drawl more pronounced, "that we have identified the objective of the game."

"To find out if blue balls can kill you?" Vincent said, voice muffled by the pillow.

Pendergast rested his head against Vincent's shoulder to muffle his laughter. After a moment, he nuzzled Vincent's ear, and whispered, "Uncle."

"Yeah?" Rolling over, Vincent eyed him warily. "You sure?"

Pendergast thought about it, picked up the dice and gave them one more roll – **Kiss Nipples** – and nodded. "Quite sure." It was either that or smash the kitchen timer to microscopic bits.

"So," Vincent got more comfortable, "who won?"

Undoing the rest of Vincent's shirt buttons and pushing the cloth out of the way, Pendergast bent his head and began carrying out the final instructions. "I tend to believe," he murmured, between licks and kisses that drew throaty moans from his partner, "that we both come out on top."

And if that wasn't precisely possible, anatomically speaking, he felt the essential truth was beyond dispute.


End file.
